know… clothes… What difference does it make?”
“It’d be nice to see if there are any bullet holes in them, even blood, perhaps. The policia ministerial will want them too. Do you still have them?”
Sandoval’s stricken look was answer enough. “Dr. Bustamente, he didn’t say… So I just… I just… Really, there wasn’t much left, only a few shreds…”
“What was he wearing on his feet, do you remember?”
“On his feet? I don’t know, sandals, like anybody else. It was warm.”
“Are you sure? Not shoes? Boots, maybe?”
“No, I’m not sure,” Sandoval said querulously. “What difference does that make? Who cares…” His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Yeah, you’re right. Boots-leather boots, up to his ankles. I helped Dr. Bustamente take them off. But how do you know that?”
“Same reasoning, nothing mysterious. The feet are almost completely skeletonized. See, the heavy leather acts as a kind of umbrella against the sun. The tissues stay moist, and the maggots and beetles can work away on them at leisure. Bodies that are heavily clothed don’t mummify. On the other hand, of course, you’re pretty unlikely to find heavily clothed bodies in environments that are conducive to mummification in the first place, so-”
But he had lost Sandoval, who was getting squirmier by the moment and making the kinds of faces that go along with a growing stomachache. Clearly the chief was anxious for him to stop talking and get on with it.
Taking pity on him, Gideon switched gears. His more general examination could wait till later. “Bueno, vamos a ver sobre esa bala, si?” he said to make Sandoval a little more comfortable, and perhaps to show off his Spanish a little. Well, let’s see about that bullet, shall we?
Apparently he got it right, because Sandoval responded with a vigorous nod. “Si, senor, por favor.”
“Bien, donde esta la comoda?” he asked. Okay, where’s the chest? He wanted to start by looking at the entry wound that the doctor had found.
“La comoda?” Sandoval echoed blankly, obviously not comprehending. “Donde esta la comoda…?”
Gideon sighed. This was the kind of reaction he often got when he showed off his Spanish a little too much. Or his German. Or French. Or Italian. As if they went out of their way not to understand their own language. He decided, as usual, that things would go better if he stuck with English. “His chest,” he said, patting his own to clarify.
“Ah, his chest,” said Sandoval. “Aha-ha, yes, sure, I see. Well, it’s over there.” He pointed to a sink along the back wall: cast iron, coated with white enamel, of about the same antique vintage as the embalming table. In it the thing lay, outer side up. Gideon had known what to expect, of course, and yet he was unexpectedly affected-embarrassed, really-to find himself looking down at something so… so personal, so intimate, so oddly naked; a chest, a human chest, lying there in the chipped, discolored, enamel bottom of an old sink, ten feet away from the body to which, in all decency, it still should have been attached. A pair of nipples, a few sparse, graying chest hairs, a navel, an old appendicitis scar He swallowed and made himself concentrate on the wound, a comma-shaped hole a couple of inches to the left of center, just below the left nipple. It was half an inch wide at its greatest width and surrounded by an irregular ring of dark, abraded flesh. The hole was big enough for him to insert his gloved pinky, but not big enough for his ring finger. Entry-wound sizes could be wildly variable, but this was about right for a. 32-caliber slug, as Bustamente had suggested, or perhaps a 9 mm one. Between the two of them, bullets of these sizes accounted for the majority of firearm homicides in the United States, and probably in Mexico as well.
And a bullet penetrating there-right there; he pressed a thumb to the same spot on his own chest to feel what lay beneath-would most likely
“It’d be nice to see if there are any bullet holes in them, even blood, perhaps. The policia ministerial will want them too. Do you still have them?”
Sandoval’s stricken look was answer enough. “Dr. Bustamente, he didn’t say… So I just… I just… Really, there wasn’t much left, only a few shreds…”
“What was he wearing on his feet, do you remember?”
“On his feet? I don’t know, sandals, like anybody else. It was warm.”
“Are you sure? Not shoes? Boots, maybe?”
“No, I’m not sure,” Sandoval said querulously. “What difference does that make? Who cares…” His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Yeah, you’re right. Boots-leather boots, up to his ankles. I helped Dr. Bustamente take them off. But how do you know that?”
“Same reasoning, nothing mysterious. The feet are almost completely skeletonized. See, the heavy leather acts as a kind of umbrella against the sun. The tissues stay moist, and the maggots and beetles can work away on them at leisure. Bodies that are heavily clothed don’t mummify. On the other hand, of course, you’re pretty unlikely to find heavily clothed bodies in environments that are conducive to mummification in the first place, so-”
But he had lost Sandoval, who was getting squirmier by the moment and making the kinds of faces that go along with a growing stomachache. Clearly the chief was anxious for him to stop talking and get on with it.
Taking pity on him, Gideon switched gears. His more general examination could wait till later. “Bueno, vamos a ver sobre esa bala, si?” he said to make Sandoval a little more comfortable, and perhaps to show off his Spanish a little. Well, let’s see about that bullet, shall we?
Apparently he got it right, because Sandoval responded with a vigorous nod. “Si, senor, por favor.”
“Bien, donde esta la comoda?” he asked. Okay, where’s the chest? He wanted to start by looking at the entry wound that the doctor had found.
“La comoda?” Sandoval echoed blankly, obviously not comprehending. “Donde esta la comoda…?”
Gideon sighed. This was the kind of reaction he often got when he showed off his Spanish a little too much. Or his German. Or French. Or Italian. As if they went out of their way not to understand their own language. He decided, as usual, that things would go better if he stuck with English. “His chest,” he said, patting his own to clarify.
“Ah, his chest,” said Sandoval. “Aha-ha, yes, sure, I see. Well, it’s over there.” He pointed to a sink along the back wall: cast iron, coated with white enamel, of about the same antique vintage as the embalming table. In it the thing lay, outer side up. Gideon had known what to expect, of course, and yet he was unexpectedly affected-embarrassed, really-to find himself looking down at something so… so personal, so intimate, so oddly naked; a chest, a human chest, lying there in the chipped, discolored, enamel bottom of an old sink, ten feet away from the body to which, in all decency, it still should have been attached. A pair of nipples, a few sparse, graying chest hairs, a navel, an old appendicitis scar He swallowed and made himself concentrate on the wound, a comma-shaped hole a couple of inches to the left of center, just below the left nipple. It was half an inch wide at its greatest width and surrounded by an irregular ring of dark, abraded flesh. The hole was big enough for him to insert his gloved pinky, but not big enough for his ring finger. Entry-wound sizes could be wildly variable, but this was about right for a. 32-caliber slug, as Bustamente had suggested, or perhaps a 9 mm one. Between the two of them, bullets of these sizes accounted for the majority of firearm homicides in the United States, and probably in Mexico as well.
And a bullet penetrating there-right there; he pressed a thumb to the same spot on his own chest to feel what lay beneath-would most likely
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